The Masked Soprano
by RGWesterman
Summary: The Opera house is plagued by a masked figure. Company members have seen the mysterious Lady roaming the halls. Is she a myth? Her identity can no longer be questioned when she takes an interest in mentoring young Tenor, Christopher Day. Will Christopher's rising stardom save the flailing Opera house? Or will the rising body count force their doors to close forever?
1. Chapter 1: The Lady

Chapter One: The Lady

It all began the evening of the party. Deb Mulligan and Polly Jones, co-managers of the theatre, were having a retirement gala at the end of that night's performance. Principal Dancer, Sara French, sat at her dressing table practicing her toast for the gala, when half-a-dozen members of the ballet rushing in from the stage, interrupting her solitude.

Shrieks of nervous laughter and voices filled the small space.

"Great," Sara muttered, glaring at the incoming gaggle of gangly legs and arms that made up the junior troupe.

Little James, the smallest of the troupe with a button nose and bright blue eyes, pressed his flushed cheek against the wood of the door as if to listen He quickly locked the door as he declared "It's the Lady! It's her!"

"Don't be silly!" Sara said rolling her eyes and feigning confidence. She did not want the young dancers to sense the chill she felt on the back of her neck. Her next words, however, immediately betrayed her curiosity. "What did you see?"

"I saw her," James continued, sinking into the valise. "Just as I see you now."

His anecdote was interrupted by another young dancer, Marcus Greer who had been hired into the Junior Troupe when his father came to work as Manager for the Box Office. "If that's the ghost," Marcus said with a disdainful edge, "then she's very ugly."

"Oh, yes! She is!" declared some of the others rallying around James. They all continued talking in one great conglomeration of voices. The lady had appeared, according to the rumors, in the guise of one finely dressed, covered in a Victorian style wine-colored silk dress and the staunch corseted posture of the gentry. It was as if she had walked out of the wall itself.

"Whatever," declared one of the older girls in the troupe, trying to align herself with Sara. "You see the Lady everywhere."

At first, rumors of the spectral Lady had been few and far between. No one wanted to admit speculation of the finely dressed woman roaming the corridors, unexplained and unimagined, moving like a shadow and vanishing the moment anyone laid eyes on her. People laughed at the idea, but the legend of the Lady soon grew among the superstitious dancers. The performers traded stories, each trying to top the other with tales of bravado. How many of the experiences may have been true was up to speculation of course, and many believed the more outlandish stories were made up on the spot. Though as time passed, even the naysayers began to experience unexplained incidents. The number of 'accidents' increased with alarming frequency among the crew members. If anyone met with a fall, fumbled a line, or misplaced a make-up applicator it was attributed to the Lady ghost.

Those who claimed to have seen her varied the description of her depending on the teller. Some said she appeared as a skeleton; the fine Victorian dress hanging off of her as a garment on a wire hanger. Others described her as a fine lady dressed for a Masquerade. The most popular description, which spread through the entire theatre company and quickly captured everyone's imagination, came from Janice Flowers, head of the scene changing team. She had seen the Lady, on the little staircase behind the footlights, only for a second. The ghost had vanished, she said but not before Janice caught a good glimpse.

"She is thin," Janice often began to anyone who would listen. "Too thin, you know? Like there might be something wrong with her. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, but they gleamed in the low light, deep and dark. Her skin stretched across her bones, but she still had skin. She's not a skeleton like they say. She's a woman. Sickly, and pale, but a woman nonetheless. She carried herself proudly, tall and imposing, though her face appeared wasted and her hair thin. And then as soon as I saw her, just like that, she vanished. Disappeared before my very eyes."

No one dared to doubt Janice Flowers, a sober, steady woman, not one prone to imagining things. Her reputation was that of one more serious than to take part in fanciful pranks or story-telling. Her witness account was received with genuine interest from the members of the company. Some believed she may be sincere in her account, but perhaps victim to someone else's idea of a joke. Soon, however, with the corroboration of multiple accounts, the presence of the Lady ghost became acceptable knowledge among the company.

One of the technical members, Pauly, worked part time as a volunteer firefighter. His demeanor was that of one who feared nothing, always the first to climb the ladder to adjust an out of reach lamp in the rafters, to wedge himself in the back pockets of the props closet, braving the possibility of spiders or other creatures. On one such day, he returned from his rounds in the cellars. When he rushed onto the stage, interrupting a rehearsal in progress, face pale and sweat beaded on his brow, everyone started with alarm.

"It's her!" He cried. "I saw her in the cellar! A head of fire, floating there before me, just there!" He extended his arm, eyes glazed over as if he could still see the visage before him. The dancers erupted into a frenzy. Seeing this oak of a man trembling with fright threw off even the older dancer, though they tried hard not to show it. The mood shifted in the days following everyone took extra care to avoid the darker parts of the building, the shadowy corners, and dimly lit catwalks up above. The difference of the description did nothing to slow down the tale of the Lady ghost. The younger ones soon came up with the plausible explanation that the Lady had multiple heads and could exchange them out at will. Sara French arrived early one day to set a horseshoe on the table by the stage door. In unspoken agreement, everyone began the habit of touching it quickly for luck before stepping onto the stage.

To return to the night in question, little James continued to stare wide-eyed at the door. "It's the Lady," he whispered. "Listen!"

Silence fell over the gathered dancers, hands clutching in their fright. A rustling sound slid past the door, crinoline, and silk. The sound suddenly stopped in front of the door. Sara swallowed hard before standing and striding to the door.

"Who's there?" she called, hoping no one noticed the slight hitch in her voice. In the looming silence, Sara felt all the eyes upon her, gauging her courage. She called out once more, "Is anyone behind the door?"

"Of course there is," Marcus whispered, clutching at Sara's gauze skirt. "Don't open the door, Sara. Please don't open the door."

Sara gathered her courage and motioned the young dancer back. With one swift motion, she turned back the lock and pulled open the door. She glanced up and down the hallway but saw nothing out of sorts, but the dim shadows of the twisting hall threatening to play tricks on her mind. She closed the door carefully and turned back to the troupe, the tension broken. "There is no one there."

"But we saw her," James declared stepping forward and mustering his bravest voice. "She must be there, perhaps hiding as she does. If we go downstairs for the gala we must all stay together. For safety."

"Now children," Sara said, "pull yourselves together. There is no ghost. It is nothing more than superstition.

"Father says she doesn't like being talked about," Marcus blurted out in an attempt to return the attention to himself. The outburst worked as the other dancers gathered around him, ears open. With the tension broken they were all eager to return to the jovial atmosphere of campfire story-telling.

"Why does your father say so?"

"Tell us! What does he know?"

Marcus stammered, "Because- because nothing. I promised not to say."

Of course, he had every intention of saying, and after a few perfunctory pleadings from his fellow troupe members, he finally conceded.

"It's because of the box," he began.

"What box?"

"Does the ghost have a box?"

"Oh, go on! Go on! Don't keep us in suspense!"

"Shh," Marcus waved everyone silent. "It's Box Five, in the grand tier. Father is in charge of it. But you must promise not to speak of it. All of you. Swear?"

"We swear of course."

"That is the Lady's box. No one else can make a reservation there. Only her. The box-office has standing orders that no one may ever reserve it."

"And does she really go there?"

"Yes, she does."

"Then someone does come?"

"No. The Lady arrives, but no one is there."

"But if she comes to the box, someone must see her."

"That's just it," Marcus insisted. The Lady is not seen and she has no dress and no head! All this business about a skeleton and head of fire is all nonsense. Father knows because he gives her the program."

"Marcus," Sara said, arms crossed. "You're just messing with us now."

His eyes welled up. "I shouldn't have said. If Father finds out, I'll be in trouble for sure."

Sara was just about to lean down to offer comfort, feeling immediately sorry for her harsh words, but the heavy sound of feet running in the hallway interrupted her. The door burst open and Mr. Greer rushed in, scanning the room and quickly rushing to his small son, still trembling from the excitement of the previous moment.

"What is it?" Sara asked.

"It's Janice. Janice Flowers is dead."

"It's the Lady!" Marcus cried before quickly pressing his hands to his mouth as if regretting the outburst. "I shouldn't have said! I shouldn't have!"

The other dancers, clung to each other, fright and panic etched on their faces. Sara's face turned sickly pale. At a loss from protecting the children from this harsh reality. Mr. Greer reached for the cupboard knowing there to be a flask well hidden behind the facial prosthetics. Sara gave him a sharp look.

"She was found backstage by one of the Senior Chorus," he continued. "They are handling it now."

"Greer, the children," Sara whispered.

He turned as if to notice the upturned horrified faces for the first time. "Ah, yes. They, um... The company is gathering in the foyer. Deb and Polly want everyone to check in and be accountable."

"Of course," Sara quickly began to usher them out the door grateful to have a task, albeit seemingly insignificant, with which to distract them. Many had begun to cry, nerves finally succumbing to the stark reality of the news. Little legs, a flurry of pink and blue nylon, rushed up the stairs to join the other company members in the relative comfort of the sunlit foyer. Sara and Greer followed behind, careful to avoid glimpsing towards the shadowy backstage.


	2. Chapter 2: The New Tenor

Much to her chagrin, Sara and the troupe nearly collided with Carla Cheney, a well-known sponsor of the theatre, who had been instrumental in promoting Sara to principle dancer. Sara's mind began to race wondering how much of the macabre events of the night she might know.

"I was just coming to find you," she said clutching her fur stole. "Oh, Sara, what an evening! Did you hear the performance by that new young tenor? Such a triumph!"

"Do you mean Christopher Day?" Marcus said as he squeezed his way between them. "That's impossible. Six months ago he used to sing like a cat in a bag. But please let us by. We're going to see about the poor woman found dead behind the footlights."

Sara cringed as Ms. Cheney's gloved hand flew to cover her mouth. At that moment the acting manager hurried by. He stopped in his tracks, having just heard the young boy's declaration. "What? Is word out already? Dear, oh dear. Please let us not speak of it just yet, especially to Deb and Polly. We don't want to ruin their night. Let's keep it quiet until at least tomorrow, shall we?" Without waiting for a reply he vanished up the stairs without another word.

"Please, Ms. Cheney," Sara said. "If you will excuse us?"

"Of course," she replied giving a piteous glance to the children as they passed by.

Despite the pall over the evening, Sara had to admit, the performances had been spectacular. Everyone had outdone themselves, each work a masterpiece in its own right. But the true star of the night, everyone agreed, was Christopher Day. Many who saw him said he laid his soul upon the stage that night. This had been the first night the young Tenor sang a featured work in the Opera. His voice was rich and full, but with an unparalleled nuance. His rendering of Mephistopheles brought the house down.

As the crowd erupted with shouts for Encore, Christopher slipped backstage, having taken his bows. He managed to make it just off the stage before he collapsed against the wall to catch his breath, momentarily overcome by the reaction. The other performers surrounded him.

"Go on, Chris. Go back. They are calling for an encore!"

He kept it together long enough to return to the stage for another bow. Prior to that night, the role of Mephistopheles had been famously performed by Elias Valentine, who had fallen ill earlier in the week, freeing up the part. Already the theatre sponsors began to whisper that such a talent was kept from them intentionally by the outgoing managers. Perhaps most mysterious of all was the knowledge that Chris did not, to anyone's knowledge have a singing tutor to teach him.

Carla Cheney listened from her reserve box as if one possessed. The spell only broken to join the thunderous applause as the last notes drifted over the upturned faces of the rapt audience. Ms. Cheney had been involved in the theatre to some degree for most of her adult life. At forty-one years, she remained an attractive woman, though known for her hard expression and sometimes cold demeanor. As the erstwhile matriarch of the Cheney family, Carla had worked hard to make a name for herself in the society circles, picking up the mantel of her family when their father died, difficult as it was.

Her two brothers and her sister, Rachelle, would not hear of dividing the estate, each waiving their rights to their claim on the property. The brother's both married, as expected to well-bred society girls. Rachelle, however, had not been so easily tamed, defying her societal upbringing and spending all her spare minutes at the seaside. She returned always with sun-pink cheeks, laughter and scuffed stockings. She did not do well as a debutante but proved herself in other ways by graduation with honors. Her first foray from home was with a three-year science expedition to the Arctic.

Rachelle's relationship with her sister was unlike that of other siblings, being twenty years her junior. Carla Cheney doted on her, taking every opportunity to spoil her on her few furloughs home. She was proud of the young woman and all she had accomplished in her young life. Yet she tried as she could to expose her to the privilege and benefits of her societal status, taking her to the theatre and introducing her into the prerogative of the gentry lifestyle. Perhaps part of her hoped she would marry or find some other reason to move back home. She had picked this evening specifically to take Rachelle to the gala, to allow her to rub elbows, to meet the dancers and experience a glimpse of the lifestyle she may have if she returned home full time.

"Rachelle, my dear, are you alright?" she asked. The girl had gone strangely pale after the performance by Christopher Day.

"Yes," came the reply. "We must go backstage immediately. I insist upon it. I've never known him to sing in such a way."

Her eyes remained locked on the performer, taking his second bow upon the stage.

Ms. Cheney felt puzzled at her sister's reaction but stirred with a glimmer of hope at her excitement. They arrived a moment later at the door leading to the hallway of the dressing rooms. Theatre members, stagehands, and backstage guests moved through the small hallway, forcing the two women to push their way through. Rachelle arrived at the dressing room amid the surrounding throngs bustling to catch a glimpse of the tenor, Christopher Day.

The doctor arrived at the same time as Rachelle, called in by the cautious stage manager to check on the star. Blood sugar, Chris insisted, nothing more, but protocol had to be followed. Chris laid on the elevated dressing room chair, with a cloth over his face and eyes, a pinnacle in the center of the room, oblivious to Rachelle and the others.

"Doctor," she said, positioning herself close to Christopher's head and commanding an authoritarian tone. "We should clear the room. Don't you think?" This was not a question.

"You're quite right," the doctor muttered without much consideration. He waved everyone out, except for Rachelle and the attending man-servant.

Back in the hallway, Carla Cheney chuckled to herself watching the whole sequence of events. Rachelle had within moments made herself indispensable, taking charge and receiving no resistance to her authority. "Hm! Perhaps she is a Cheney after all," she muttered to herself. She left then, hoping to catch up with Sara French, whom she found forthwith along with the frightened junior troupe at the stairs landing.

Christopher Day opened his eyes, seeing through the mirror's reflection the doctor first. His eyes turned toward Rachelle standing behind him, seeking her out in the false distance the mirror implied. He made no immediate reaction but considered her presence. Rachelle tried to calm her racing heart as he turned, taking in the room, counting each person and examining the purpose of their presence, glancing over each of them, the doctor, the man-servant, and back to Rachelle.

"Who are you?" he said with a flat searching voice.

Rachelle crossed to face him, forcing his eyes from her reflection to her natural face. She took his hand and smiled. "I am the little girl who went to sea to rescue your cap."

Once more no sign of recognition appeared in his countenance. The doctor and man-servant exchanged a glance, trying perhaps to decipher Rachelle's cryptic statement. Rachelle felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She stood and took a step back. Christopher sat up, smoothing back his disheveled hair.

"It is clear, Mr. Day, that you don't recognize me," she said in attempt to regain the authority which got her into the room in the first place. "Perhaps we could speak together privately for a moment."

"Yes, of course," he replied as he sat up. "But not just now. Do you mind?"

His words caught her off guard.

"In fact," he continued, standing and leaning his fingertips on the dressing table, "I'd like to be alone just now. The, um, the performance has left me rather spent."

"Yes," the doctor chimed in. "I must tend to him. If you all don't mind-"

"No, Doctor. I'm fine now, please," Christopher rubbed his face over his eyes, turning towards them all and with sudden urgency waved them all out the door. "I'd prefer to be alone right now. All of you."

The hallway had been largely deserted by this time, most of the inhabitants having gone to the gala. The doctor said good night and went his way. Rachelle expected Chris should attend the gala and decided to wait for him in the shadows of the empty hall. She felt such a heartache at his rebuff and wanted to put it right before another moment passed. When the dressing room door opened, her breath caught, but it was only the man-servant, carrying out the costumes bundled in his arms.

"Pardon me, sir," Rachelle asked. "But is he alright? Will he be out soon?"

"Oh, he is quite well," The man replied. "But he must be left alone right now."

 _I wonder,_ Rachelle mused, _if he is waiting for me to return He did say he would speak with me when he felt better. He sent the others away for that reason, I am sure._

Her heart pounded as she stepped towards the door, leaning forward to hear his reply as she raised her hand to knock. What she heard next froze the blood in her veins. A woman's voice, as clear as a bell, speaking from inside the dressing room, her tone breathless, as one within the throws of passion. "You must love me, Christopher," she said.

"You know I only sing for you," he replied in a desperate whisper.

Rachelle leaned against the wall trying to steady her weakened knees. The blood coursed in her veins by some magic beyond herself, as if the silence of the hallway had been overcome by the sound of her heartbeat. She briefly wondered if they would hear it inside the room, opening the door to laugh at her desperation.

"Are you tired?" The woman's voice continued filtering through the door.

"I gave you my soul," Christopher replied. "Being on stage tonight was like a little death." The sound of his voice brought hot and unexpected tears to Rachelle's eyes.

"Kings and Queens in all of the ages have never been given such a gift. Tonight you made the angels weep."

Rachelle backed away from the door, feeling at once as if she were eavesdropping upon a quiet private moment between two lovers. She returned to the shadows where she had stood a moment before, daring not to leave just yet. Her heart remained, despite the apparent facts before her, locked inside that room.

An eternity of seconds passed before the door opened again, revealing Chris, hands deep in the pocket of his long black coat, eyes covered with dark glasses. He glanced up and down the hall, closing the door behind him. Rachelle remained unnoticed as he disappeared towards the foyer. She crossed the now deserted hallway and opened the door to the dressing room. For a flicker of a moment, she realized the absurdity of her actions, slinking about like a schoolgirl with a crush. She should have waited. And what did she expect would happen if she came face to face with this woman? Closing the door behind her she found herself in darkness. All the lights had been turned out.

"I know you're in here," Rachelle called out. "No reason to hide."

No response but the darkness and silence. Rachelle's hand fumbled against something cold and metal, a lighter at the edge of the dressing table. With a quick motion, she flicked the top and ignited the flame, shattering the darkness and throwing dancing shadows on the wall. There was no one else there.

"I've lost my mind," Rachelle whispered taking a tentative step forward. "I've absolutely lost my mind."

She squeezed her eyes shut and steadied her breath, calming herself enough to think about turning on the lights. The fluorescent bulbs popped to life, further revealing the emptiness of the room, save for the lingering scent of men's cologne. Chris. She searched the room, careful not to disturb anything. The costume cabinets, the dressing area, the cupboards, all revealing nothing more than their intended contents. At last, she admitted defeat, confusion replacing the intensity of her emotions.

No one spotted her leaving the room. Not until the staircase did she run into another soul, a procession of workers carrying a stretcher, covered in a white sheet.

"Pardon me," she asked one of them. "Which is the closest way out?"

"Just this way," he gestured towards the open door. An icy gust caught her breath. "But do let us

pass by first."

"What is this?" Rachelle asked. "What has happened?"

"This is Janice Flowers, found this very evening behind the footlights."

Rachelle stepped backward, placing her hand over her heart as the pieces fell into place. She let them by, waiting until they cleared the building before she exited into the darkness of the cold night.


	3. Chapter 3: The Reason

The gala had already begun. Most of the attendees blissfully unaware of the macabre event on the level below. The foyer was filled with denizens of the city and artistic world. The few of them who did know, existed within an agreement of facade as if they had placed a mask of forced cheer upon their faces. Deb Mulligan and Polly Jones arrived, resplendent in their formal evening dresses, each handed a glass of sparkling champagne upon their arrival at the top of the stairs met by the enthusiastic applause greeting them as they descended down to the sponsors, the troupe, and the guests.

The atmosphere felt jovial and light despite the few whispers here and there. The tables were laid out with a variety of foods, piles of fruits, cakes, and crudites. The dancers had changed out of their tights and gauze skirts, opulent in cocktail gowns and formal suits. The shabbiness of the artists only differentiated them to the keen eye from the velvet, lace, and satin of the gentry. Little James laughed and chattered, bouncing from here to there, seeming to have forgotten the grisly events of the evening. When the retiring managers appeared Sara quickly called him to order.

The applause subsided and Sarah began her farewell speech. Frozen smiles plastered on faces as she spoke. The new managers stood to the side, humbly partaking in the celebration of their forerunners. No one noticed the hooded figure standing in their midst, dressed in a blood-colored velveteen, not at all out of place in the well-dressed crowd. The keys to the Opera house, a large old fashioned loop filled with keys upon keys, the two large master keys stood out among the rest of the gold toothed baubles.

The new managers, Amy Charmain, a trim fashionable woman and Frank Richards, a dapper young man with the flair for design, both stood off to the side relatively unknown to the gathered crowd. They received cordial handshakes and exclamations of welcome throughout the night. Everyone gathered towards the food, at last, picking and nibbling of tiny plates with gloved, manicured hands. Still, the woman in the dark-red cloak moved among them, nothing more visible than the glint of the chandelier light on her glossed lips.

Not to say that she was not noticed, for she did present a striking figure, her movements swan-like, graceful. Each of the guests when landing their eyes upon her had such fleeting thoughts about the make of her cloak, the way her face remained hidden, but every single one found nothing else noteworthy about her, a guest of someone, perhaps, or a well-to-do sponsor with a flair for the dramatic. Nothing at all out of the ordinary.

"The Opera Ghost!" declared little James, his voice rising above the polite chatter of the party. This bold declaration, along with his pointing, shaking finger towards the red-hooded woman seemed to break the tension in the room. The woman stood, tilting her head as the room fell silent. All eyes landed upon her, though her face remained hidden. What everyone would remember about that night for years to come, was the way the light landed up her face, shrouded though it was. Beside her perfectly applied lipstick, the smoothness of her flesh betrayed the slightest scar, a crag in her cheek caught and revealed by the brightness of the light. Her eyes and nose remained under shadow, her identity unknown.

Marcus began to cry, even as most others began to imagine this some kind of elaborate practical joke, all parties willing participants. They watched with smiles of anticipation. Sarah was furious that the ceremonies had been interrupted, casual though they were. She had heard tell that Frank, one-half of the incoming management team, had a knack for practical jokes, but she would never have imagined he would stoop to such a display. She had only met him in passing, though so her judgment could have been skewed.

"The Ghost!" James cried again as excitement began to rise. "It's her! The Ghost!"

A slight circle had formed around the woman as everyone waited for her to respond, to play her part in the madcap performance being played out around them. She did not speak, but stood in such stoic silence, her very presence filling the space to the extent that the onlookers began to look away, finding the need to adjust a stole, smooth a button or otherwise attend to some important adjustment of clothing. No one could pinpoint the exact moment this woman had arrived among them but her presence now seemed more real, almost too real, for anyone's great comfort.

Most of those present did not know of the death of the unfortunate Janice Flowers. Those who did, seethed with the assumption that this was a joke played out in bad taste, which should have been canceled the moment word arrived of the poor scene-shifter's death.

"The dancers are right," the hooded figure spoke in a voice like steel. "The death of Ms. Flowers is perhaps not so natural as one would think."

Deb and Polly, as of yet unaware, gave a start. Polly reached for her throat, as Deb clutched her partner's arm in shock.

"What does she mean?"

"Is Janice dead?"

"Yes," came the voice emanating from her as if a bodiless entity of its own. "Found just this evening in the cellar behind the footlights and the scenes from tonight's performance."

Deb and Polly both stood, mouths open, staring at the strange creature. A small smattering of uncomfortable shifts and asides rippled over the crowd. Invoking the death of a well-known core member felt a bit macabre even for an elaborate practical joke. Deb reached for Polly's arm, who then turned towards Frank and Amy, gesturing for them to follow. As the four of them scurried towards the office, Polly took a moment to signal Mr. Greer to call security, but by the time they arrived the mysterious woman had vanished.

"What is the meaning of all of this?" Amy pronounced once they closed the door behind them.

"Yes," chimed Frank. "Even I find this in very poor taste."

"No," Deb explained, her face pale as a tablecloth. "This is not a joke. Not even close, and as the new managers it is vital that you understand this."

"Do you know her?" Frank asked, settling into the lounge couch. Amy perched on the windowsill awaiting the answer. The other two exchanged a tentative glance.

"Look," Deb began. "You should probably see about changing the locks in the building."

"Which locks?" Amy asked.

"All of them."

"Why? Do you have a problem with thievery here?"

"No, listen!" Polly exclaimed making the three of them startle. "It's not thieves. This is not a joke of any kind. This theatre building has always been a bit of an anomaly. Something resides here that we cannot explain, in all of our time here."

"And what is that?" Frank asked tapping his fingers on this knee.

"The Ghost. The Lady Ghost."

The silent moment passed between Amy and Frank, both pressing their lips together in attempt to suppress their disbelief. To no avail, however, as within moments they both burst into laughter. It tapered off when they both noticed the pallid gazes of Deb and Polly, unamused and patiently waiting for their humor to subside.

"Alright, fine," Frank said. "I'll play along at least. What about this 'ghost'? What does she want?"

Polly reached behind the desk and retrieved the memo-book from the middle drawer, flipping open the pages until she found her goal. "Here," she said. "Clause 98. It states that the management of the Opera house shall acquiesce the performance as declared and comply with the following amendments."

She spun the book around, prompting the others to lean forward. Deb had seen the contents a thousand times, if once, so she remained at the far side of the desk with her arms crossed. The other two managers read the final paragraph with some confusion.

 _Or if the manager, in any month, delays for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which shall be made to the Opera ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, two hundred and forty thousand dollars a year._

"Is that all?" asked Frank. "Does she want anything else?"

"Yes, she does," replied Polly. "Here, have a look. There are specific days in which the private boxes are to be reserved for high profile guests. Box five is to be held at the disposal of the Lady for every performance."

"Every performance!" Amy said. "That's just not a realistic option. This whole thing is just ridiculous. That's one of the best boxes in the house."

"You don't think we know that?" Polly snapped. "Do you know how much revenue we have lost by holding that box alone? We've not sold it once. Not once!"

"Why do you think we're taking early retirement?" Deb asked with a slight roll of the eye.

"So you've seen her then," Frank replied cooly. "In box five?"

"No, we've never seen her. Not once."

"Then sell the box. What difference does it make?"

"Ha!" Deb exclaimed. "Try it. Just once. See what happens."

Amy and Frank cut their eyes towards one another, each trying to read the other's reaction. The pall of knowledge of the death of Ms. Flowers crept upon them as a possible reality. What had they gotten themselves into, they both wondered, even as they sought reassurance in the other? Perhaps this was nothing more than an elaborate joke after all, and they would return to the foyer to be met with genuine applause. Surely the company had created this ruse for their sake, nothing more than a gauntlet to welcome the new managers and Janice Flowers would step out from behind the curtains with a dramatic flourish, taking a bow to the renewed cheers.

They both hoped to see a flicker of this possibility in the eyes of the other. But in that moment, that one split-second of eye contact, what they saw there were disbelief and a dawning acceptance of the information before them, a picture of the job they had both already signed and agreed upon. As much as they wanted this to be an elaborate hoax, they both knew with utmost certainty that this was not.


End file.
